Silent Courtship
by Solora Goldsun
Summary: As France lies beneath England, he can only assume that his fellow nation is completely, utterly drunk. Something is wrong, however: A drunken, lustful Englishman couldn't possibly be this gentle and kind... Rated T for tame Lime scene


**Here's some more FrUK for ya'll! And, like the last one, England's the one in control here! Why? Because ENGLAND NEEDS TO BE IN CONTROL MORE, DANGIT! ^_^ Now, this fic enters Lime territory. I don't know if you'd call it a Lemon... It's really softcore, so... Eh. I'll just call it a sugary Lemon-Lime soda. Rated T and not M for a reason: it's pretty tame. Hope you like it!**

FRANCE'S POV

France gazed up in wonder at England's hazy eyes. The wine he had been consuming throughout the evening made his mind pleasantly muzzy and his muscles incredibly relaxed. England, on the other hand, had obviously crossed the deep end.

Why else would they be in such a position right now?

Their casual wear was ruffled and wrinkled. Their faces were flushed and warm from a series of recent kisses. Their hands were eagerly wandering across each others bodies.

The Frenchman's heart was close to bursting.

England brushed his lips lightly against France's throat, breathing soft puffs of air across his skin. One of his hands wandered down to he hem of his shirt to move across his abdomen. France sighed as the touches caused sweet little flames to erupt wherever they were placed. "Angleterre..."

The other nation paused, moving up again so that their eyes locked. His eyes were like new spring leaves kissed with morning dew. Meanwhile, his hand moved down to brush against France's leg. His eyes glittered, silently asking permission to continue.

Asking permission! France would have laughed if he hadn't been so enamored. No one had ever asked him permission before! It was generally assumed that the Frenchman would say yes to any good-looking, human-like figure.

This was definitely not true. For example, his fellow nations Russia and Belarus terrified him. They were frightening enough in the daylight! France shuddered to imagine what they would be like in a darkened bedroom with him completely at their mercy... Also, he would certainly never consider bedding with Germany. He was such a stiff! It was doubtful that the tall nation even knew how to love properly.

Still, France had done little to rebuke the public perception of him. He wasn't an easily-shamed man. He understood what the world thought of him and embraced it (rather often, one might add).

Therefore, seeing the silent question on England's face took him aback for a moment. When he saw that the question was true and not just a simple pause in action, he numbly nodded his head. England smiled (an oddly steady smile for one who was supposed to be drunk) and planted a quick kiss on France's lips before tugging at his shirt.

Both shirts were shucked off in a matter of minutes. France waited for what would happen next, but it didn't come. Not yet. Instead, England moved back to look at him. Green eyes caressed the older nation's perfectly-sculpted torso. Then, a trembling hand reached out to touch the many scars that crisscrossed the otherwise flawless skin.

France's breath hitched and he closed his eyes, his heart pounding. England used his forefinger to trace a long scar that led from the other nation's waist, across his abdomen and chest in a diagonal path, to his left shoulder. It was from one of their many past wars. France didn't bother trying to remember which one.

England did the same thing with each scar that had somehow been inflicted by or because of him. He drew back, waiting. France, taking his cue, opened his eyes and began to seek out scars on his fellow nation's body, touching them and occasionally kissing them softly. He was so confused! He had occasionally bedded with other nations, but they had never engaged in such an intimate and apologetic act beforehand.

As he finished caressing the last scar, France was gently pushed onto his back once more. England kissed him at the very base of his throat. Then, he moved down a few inches. And again. And again. He left a trail of warm, slow kisses all the way down to the waistline of France's light, cotton pants.

Again, clothing was shucked off like the leaves of two golden ears of corn, leaving twin maps of scars, previous encounters, and deeply-set strength. Their eyes locked yet again before France leaned up for a passionate kiss. His hands tangled in England's hair, which was as soft as a baby bird's downy feathers. The Brit, in turn, framed his face and nibbled gently at his bottom lip.

'Gently...' Every action by England was gentle, France realized. Despite many previous attempts by both parties to cause extensive injury to the other, England was now treating him as if he was a fragile, precious artifact.

This realization was proven when the Englishman evoked a pleased whine by nipping at France's earlobe. As the sound escaped France's lips, England pulled back, a concerned look on his face. "Did that hurt?" He whispered, speaking for the first time in awhile. His voice was soft and husky and thick with something that was surely only alcohol.

"No." France smiled. "Not at all."

By this point, he was more than ready for this to reach the next stage. England seemed to feel the same way, as his expression subtly changed at that moment. A deeper, primal longing allowed itself to surface on the Brit's tender face, miraculously keeping his expression pure at the same time.

Slowly, slowly, England eased himself down. His eyes closed. His head came to a rest on France's chest. His right hand closed over the Frenchman's left.

Then, he began to tenderly claim France's body. Though, it quickly became apparent that he was trying to claim his heart as well.

France purred deeply. At the same time, he found himself mesmerized: England's movements were so slow, deliberate, and sweet. As he continued to claim him, he moved up to capture France's lips in another kiss. This time, his tongue slipped in. Two voices moaned quietly against each other.

England was everywhere. Around him, within him. His tongue caressed and stroked as his tender actions reached their peak.

His movements were too kind, too pure, and too earnest to be a simple combination of a drunken mind and a lustful body. He steadily, softly sought out France's innermost secrets, silently reaching out to touch them. In his mind's eye, France felt himself surrendering his whole essence to England, who then enfolded him in a soothing white light. The light tingled, moving across his skin like a pleasant fire and seeping into every crevice, filling him utterly.

"Angleterre!" France gasped, clutching at England desperately before abruptly relaxing as their passionate, silent courtship ended. He lay panting as England carefully drew back and gazed down at him.

England then rolled to the side, breathing heavily. After a few minutes, he moved his head over to whisper sleepily into France's ear. The words were quiet and timid and hazy with sudden drowsiness, but they were true.

France closed his eyes, smiling as he repeated the sweet words back to England. For the first time in a long while, they felt as true as they sounded.

**Yeah... This was a total Fluffitis release here. It's been awhile since I've written some good ole fluff, so the sugary buildup was high for this one. Hope you liked it. FRUK FOREVA! Peace out! ^_^**


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